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The Politician\'s Wife	By : pir8fancier Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 14170 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment.

After last week's disastrous lunch—where I saw fit to lash out at Malfoy because I was disgusted with myself—I made a silent vow to be on my best behaviour before I Flooed to his flat. Cool, professional, I wouldn't let him needle me or goad me. We would collaborate like the two senior Ministry colleagues that we were and not bring our personal enmity or private problems into the process.

Naturally, the second lunch was nothing more than a fight from start to finish.

On my way to the Floo station, I ran into Carstairs. Refusing to meet my eye, he mumbled a hello and then scuttled off. It was impossible miss the gigantic growth in the middle of his forehead despite his attempts at hiding his face. Approximately the size of a golf ball, his neck was most likely killing him with just the sheer energy it took to keep his neck upright.

The Chevaliers had done their usual magic. The weather had turned the previous weekend, and clouds of damp mist battered against the windows. The pot au feu couldn't have been more perfect; I wish I could have enjoyed it. As it was, we railed at each other with every bite, finishing off each verbal joust with a swig of the rich burgundy that accompanied the meal. The wine was superb, but it only exacerbated the situation.

"Why didn't you just carve an 'L' for lecher into Carstairs' forehead and be done with it?" I stabbed at a carrot.

"What makes you think that I had anything to do with his little disfigurement?" he replied, cool and detached, like the out and out little liar he was.

I pointed my fork at him. "I can fight my own battles, thank you very much. Those ridiculous evasions might work with others, but they don't work with me. Did you or did you not curse Carstairs for his trollish behaviour toward me last week?"

"I think it suits him. That way you don't notice that he was born without a chin. I certainly thought about it, but whether I did anything about it is open for debate."

"We are debating," I growled out, "and now the debate is over." I pushed away my plate and took a large gulp of wine.

"Done already?" Noting that I was swilling back the wine, he raised his glass and said, "This is quite lovely. I must lay down a few cases myself."

"Malfoy!"

"Have I told you lately how absolutely impossible you are? Fine. Have it your way. I was searching for a family heirloom to present to Lily and Dom when Malfoy junior pops out and happened to unearth this lovely book of curses that my parents gave me for my tenth birthday. Strolling through the hallway earlier this week, I espied Carstairs. Saw that chin just begging—or, rather, I searched for a chin and was sorely disappointed, but what's that old Muggle phrase? When God closes a door, he opens a window—there was his forehead and voilà." His wand appeared out of nowhere and he gave it a little flourish. "It will go away." He paused for several seconds. "Eventually."

I wanted to grab his wand, break it into tiny little pieces, force feed them to him, and hope the splinters catch on their way down that ferrety little throat.

"There are protocols, Malfoy. If we all went around hexing people we didn't like…" I paused to flare my nostrils, "the halls of the Ministry would be shimmying from all that spent magic. I have lodged a complaint with the proper authorities and—"

He dropped his chin to his chest and groaned, like he couldn't possibly believe what he was hearing.

"You have been working in the Ministry for far too many years. You actually believe those protocols work? They are worth about as much as the parchment they are written on, and exist so that mindless bureaucrats can pat themselves on the back and say they are doing something to actively combat sexual harassment in the workplace," he mocked in falsetto. "Nonsense. Utter shit. The person in charge of HR is his great aunt. He's been feeling up women for years—"

"Unlike you?"

It was now time to push his half-finished plate away.
"Not that you would know this, being a female and based on our previous discussions, you swing only one way, so the feeling-up of women is a subject—perhaps the only subject—on which you are not an expert. Fortunately, I am. There really is an art to feeling up a woman and you don't do it unless someone wants you to. Utter bad form. He gives us wantons a bad name."

"You are vile."

That got me a smile.

"Compliments will get you much farther than you would ever imagine. Basically, his aunt will warn him to keep his hands to himself, ask him if he wants another lump of sugar in his tea, and, by the way, Uncle Alfred is going deaf. That will be the sum of it. Nothing says, 'Keep your grubby paws to yourself, you disgusting wanker,' like a boil the circumference of a Galleon. Do you know, Granger, it never ceases to amaze me that you've been a Ministry employee all these years, and yet sometimes it's like you just walked in the door. You just don't get how the Ministry works."

"Oh my God," I spat out. "Says the man who never works. Ever!"

That got to him, because his face got that Hogwarts-era pinch to it.

"Really? Never is quite definitive. So sorry to prove you wrong. Accio parchment."

A fat roll of parchment flew into his hand. Given the appearance of yet another enormous catalogue detailing Jenkins' inappropriate behaviour, I suspected that Malfoy had spent the last week fronting for hundreds of pints and numerous boxes of cigars. I said as much. "How many rounds and cigars did that warrant?"

"Biscuit?" he snapped. "Don't shake your head, they are delicious. You're not eating since that worthless husband of yours left on his stupid trip, and you could use a pound or two. Your arse is disappearing. A tragedy of national importance as far as I am concerned. Yes, it's not so much my bank account taking quite a hit that bothers me, but to be virtually incarcerated in a room full of men smoking cigars and not be able to even sneak a little puff without backsliding…" He threw his wand down on the table.

Where to begin?

"First of all, Ron is not worthless. Second of all, you smoke like a chimney, so why—"

Then I realised. Last Friday, no smoking. This Friday, no smoking.

"I believe I've already commented on how impossible you are. I am that insignificant, am I? Haven't you noticed I quit? Not a single fag in three weeks. I have to admit it's getting better. The first two weeks were horrendous. I was a right bear. Pansy threatened to drown me, and my mother threatened to haul me over her knee and wail the tar out of me if I didn't stop being so disagreeable. Interesting phrase that. Wail the tar out of someone. As if one had tar inside to wail out. Anyway, it's getting better. Now I only want one every seven minutes as opposed to every two minutes."

"Good on you," I said rather primly. "It was a disgusting habit. Did it finally dawn on you that smoking those revolting things was the height of stupidity?"

"No, actually." He pushed the plate of biscuits my way. "Please eat. You are not one of those women who are at their best when too slim. In fact, all women look better with a few pounds on them. Why oh why do women think men want to fuck sticks? I consider myself fairly mainstream in that regard, and, personally, my hands are much happier when I've got something to grab, as opposed to grabbing and ending up with a bone under my palm. Most disappointing. It's impossible to fondle a rib, as I've discovered. Anyway, the pleasure I derived from smoking always outweighed any other consideration. During the war it was, why not light up another since I'm going to die; after the war it was, why not light up another since I've survived."

"That is totally illogical," I snapped.

"Pleasure is not logical. It is simply pleasure." He toasted me, finished the wine he had, and poured himself another hefty glass.

"So if lighting up those cancer sticks and the high you derive from inhaling all those toxins is so pleasurable, why quit?"

"You find it offensive. I wish to please you."

His face had softened, the pinch beginning to recede, but this was said with his normal snide.

My little vow to be professional was very much beginning to rankle.

"You quit because I find it offensive?"

He nodded.

"Because you wish to please me?"

He nodded again.

I held up a hand. He was evil. Absolutely evil. After years of hating me, insulting me at every opportunity, he'd found an even more diabolical way of getting to me. With these horrible lies about how beautiful I was and how much he desired me and how intelligent I was and how he wanted to please me. All bollocks.

"May I make this clear for the record? I have no interest in what the completely debauched modern man wants in his ideal fuck, and I don't give a rat's arse why you quit. But the one thing I know is that it had nothing to do with me. Given how vain you are, you probably saw a wrinkle in the mirror one morning and went into hysterics. I never want to hear you say another word about how beautiful, how intelligent, how smashing, how riveting, how lovely I am. Ever. It's all lies, knowing what you really think. You've made that crystal clear over the years. All your false gushings are nothing more than a gigantic sneer masquerading as compliments."

We sat there for a minute: I stared at the plate of madeleines he'd pushed in my direction.

Finally, he said in a low voice, "You still don't take me seriously at all, do you? I have no credibility with you." He didn't wait for me to reply. "For the record, the last time I went into hysterics was when your Potter killed my father. An event that certainly justifies them, as opposed to waking up and seeing one's forty-one-year-old face getting a little worn. I have noted your disdain for anything even remotely approaching a compliment. I thought that since your husband is perfectly content to let you go on your holidays and work your arse off, that compliments, genuine compliments, might be few and far between. I see that I was mistaken. He obviously showers you with them, as mine are worthless. Now that we completely understand each other, let's compare notes so that you can Floo out of here as soon as possible. Think positive thoughts, Granger. You only have to suffer my presence for another week, four hours maximum, and then we are done."

I looked up, expecting the patented Malfoy contempt on his face, but what I saw was hurt and anger and something else I couldn't define. Without knowing why, I felt ashamed. I reached out for his hand and he pulled away.

"Here." He placed his parchment in my hand. "What have you accomplished this week?"

For the next hour, we compared notes and compiled arguments for our presentation to the Minister. My arguments were bullets points cataloguing the ethical implications of keeping Jenkins in the Ministry. Malfoy's arguments were nothing more than a laundry list of how this might negatively affect the Ministry—ergo, the Minister—in the next election should someone publicly call Jenkins on his racism. Ethics and spin. I had no delusions about which would be more valuable to the Minister, but at this point even I recognised that you took your victories when you could. Fortunately, this was one instance where the ethics and the spin were working hand in hand; a rare thing.

We spoke in clipped, neutral tones, and no listener would have suspected that we had known each other for thirty years. A half an hour into this, Malfoy shouted, "Accio fags!" and a pack of Players jumped out of a drawer in the kitchen and smacked into the palm of his hand. An Incendio and he lit that nasty thing with the end of his wand.

The first deep drag and puff of smoke was followed by a grimace and a jut of his chin, challenging me to say something. I ignored him. I really couldn't get out of there fast enough, and if it hadn't been for Jenkins' wife and children, we might have escaped without the final blow-up.

"I think that covers it. I'll see you next week." He moved to pull out my chair.

"One minute."

He sat down and lit another cigarette. Was his hand shaking?

"Do I need to remind you it is opera season? I need to go home, shower, change into dress robes, eat something, and be at the opera house by eight." He cast a Tempus. "You have three and one-half minutes."

That was the old Malfoy—brusque, demanding, arrogant—and it was something of a shock to realise that there was an "old Malfoy."

"Did you read the transcript of the interview with Mrs Jenkins?"

"Constance? Yes, of course, I did. Dear thing. Thick as two planks. Couldn't even get into Hogwarts. I think she went to some third-rate school in the United States. Makes Millicent Bulstrode look like a genius."

I had borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak and accompanied the Ministry employee who interviewed her, pretending to be conducting a routine census on Ministry employees. The woman was so trusting and, well, clueless that any question he asked, she answered. She echoed Jenkins' tasteless remarks, but always followed it up with a "Well, I don't know much about Quidditch. Busy with the children, you know." As if racism and Quidditch were somehow intertwined. Then we had to listen to her brag about her children and how her eldest was finishing up at Hogwarts and how her youngest was just learning to talk—a little slow in that department but he made up for it by having the sunniest disposition—and would Mr Walker like a cup of tea?

A nicer, more idiotic woman was never born. As Walker had asked her more pointless questions, I tiptoed around the room and then through the house, nearly reeling from all this spent magic. A few silent diagnostic spells and I concluded that someone in this house was a thrower of lamps. A heaver of chairs. A smasher of mirrors.

The Jenkins might have been pure-bloods, but they weren't aristocrats like the Malfoys; more middleclass like Ron's family, albeit with a few more Galleons in Gringotts. The house was large, squatting on several acres, but the furniture was a good number of years past new. Given the amount of times the dining room chairs had been repaired, I suspected that there was no point in buying new furniture.

"If he loses his job, she'll bear the brunt of it. Malfoy, I can't say he beats her, but the house reeked of Reparo spells. Nearly all the furniture had been magic'd back together at some point. I can't stand the thought that he'll take it out on her. Or the children," I finished with a whisper.

He didn't look surprised. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Jenkins' drunken ramblings about Mudbloods were probably accompanied by equally tasteless comments about "having to knock some sense into the wife." He stabbed out his cigarette. "A little late in the day to give this up now."

"I'm not asking you to give this up," I protested. "He definitely should be sacked, but you own the Prophet. Can you hire him? A job where his racism doesn't affect people. The sort of position where he's not in charge of people."

"I don't own the Prophet, Granger. Am rather tired of reminding you of that fact." He reduced the package of cigarettes to the size of a stamp and slipped them in his pocket. Apparently, we were done.

I lost it completely. Because that gentle, stupid woman was going to get the pummelling of her life if that wife-beating, racist thug didn't have another option. And the children…

"God damn you to hell, Draco Malfoy!" Spitting mad, it was all I could do not to grab that empty wine bottle and klonk him over the head with it. "Someone with the name 'Malfoy' owns that paper. It might not be you, but it's your wife, it's your mother, or it's some sort of shell corporation that you own and profit from. I am asking you if it is possible to hire this worthless sod so that his wife doesn't get her face broken or his children thrown against walls. Is that too much to ask? What is the point of having power if you don't use it for good?"

He stood up and marched to fireplace, his fists clenched so tightly that it looked like it was agony to unfurl one to grab some Floo powder.

"Have you considered that he's raising a bunch of brats with the same limited, ugly ideas that he has? That his silly wife probably echoes his nightly diatribes of how the Mudbloods are ruining professional Quidditch. Believe me, I've heard them. I could probably recite them verbatim. His children will be reciting them as well, and their children will continue this, on and on. I'm surprised at you, Granger."

"Oh? Not as surprised as I am. I should think you of all people would be last person to condemn the children for the sins of their father."

His face turned a deathly white, and with a shout of "Malfoy Manor", he was gone.

I brooded all weekend. For the first time in ages, I didn't bring work home. Despite the foul weather, I did some gardening, gave my kitchen a thorough clean. I listened for a good hour to Ron's rambling Firecall about how wonderful New Orleans was and how we had to take a vacation there someday. I went shopping with Ginny and bought nothing. I had Sunday dinner with my parents. None of it dispelled the knot in the back of my neck, which made me wince every time I turned my head.

When in the hell had I started to distinguish the "old" Malfoy from the "new" Malfoy? What a horrifying thought. Yet that we were on new, untested ground, I couldn't deny. In between all that blather about his great aunt's love affairs and poisonings and perusing museums in Venice and the giving of a Monet and eating lunch and throwing champagne at each other and sharing lunch in a flat decorated with the sole purpose of seducing women, we'd crossed a line. But what line?

Three months ago, someone would have mentioned Malfoy's name and I would have said, "Worthless sod," and not given him another moment's thought. Now? I'd still say, "Worthless sod," but it wouldn't end there.

Bugger.

I'd spent all weekend wondering why I would even care about hurting his feelings. Because although he played his cards close to his vest, there wasn't any doubt in my mind that I had wounded him and badly. Instead of being chuffed with myself, I was completely ashamed. I never should have made that comment about his father, no matter how true it was, nor should I have commented on the status of the Prophet; it was really none of my business. But the sight of a doll peeping out from under a hair, its leg missing, my nose still twitching from the smell of all those Reparos.

Bugger again.

First thing Monday morning I took the lift to Malfoy's office. It was early, a little after seven, and none of the secretarial staff were there. I certainly didn't him expect him to be in yet. There was a tacit understanding that no department head meeting should be scheduled for any earlier than ten or Malfoy wouldn't attend. I would leave a little note tacked to his door, apologising for my remarks.

The location of Malfoy's office, two floors closer to the Minister, was a dead giveaway that one of us was being groomed to be the next Assistant Minister of Magic, and it wasn't me. Yet, I firmly believed that at some point, the powers that be would see how hard I was working and how dedicated I was, and how Malfoy was nothing more than a power-hungry dilettante.

I must have tripped the wards when I made to spell my note to the glass on his door, because I heard a muffled, "Come in."

I paused, the palm of my hand sticky. It slipped a bit trying to grip the knob.

"Whoever you are, I don't have time for any shit this early in the morning!" he shouted thought the door. "I'm in a rotten mood and the wards won't stop chiming if you don't move your arse. Now move. Open that fucking door or step away from it."

I stepped in. Not only was his office in prime real estate Ministry wise, it was four times the size of mine and much more opulent. Modern art covered every available patch of wall, and the furniture was most definitely not standard Ministry issue, no doubt culled from the spare rooms at Malfoy Manor. The French antiques should have clashed with the abstract art, and vice versa, but it didn't. The outré art relieved the antiques of their inherent stodginess, and the antiques gave the art some gravitas. All that modern art was a bit overwhelming for my taste, but it suited him. I couldn't help but give a quick thought to his comments about how austere my office was.

The room was obscured by smoke; he must have been at it for quite some time, lighting one after the other. Seeing who it was, he immediately cast a Smoke-Be-Gone Charm, and stabbed out his current cigarette.

"You look like you got about as much sleep this weekend as I did," I said as I made my way across the room. He gave a slight nod to indicate that he heard me, acknowledging the bags under my eyes and his. "I'm sorry," and I handed him my apology.

He huffed a little laugh and then handed me his apology.

"Was just getting up to put this on your desk."

I unfurled it.

Hermione:

I apologise for my appalling behaviour on Friday. My father is a touchy subject at the best of times. I find it impossible to even mention him without having some sort of reaction, often negative. That he has been dead for over twenty years seems not to matter one whit. At the very least, a gentleman escorts his guest out the door; I was a complete boor. Again, I apologise.

DM

We both looked up at the same time. The level of grovelling was nearly equal in both our notes.

"Apology accepted." I smiled.

"Apology accepted." He smiled back.

"Have you had breakfast?"

"No, I didn't have time. I wanted to get here—"

"Before I did," he finished for me.

A snap of fingers and the Sevres teapot and accoutrements appeared, nestled among a dinner platter piled high with croissants and pain au chocolate.

"Will you pour?" he asked, as if we were some old English couple on holiday in France, determined to keep up the remnants of some faded notion of empire by having tea with our croissants, and yet secretly overjoyed to be free of that ubiquitous oatmeal.

Despite the apologies, the atmosphere remained horribly strained. Our knives hit our plates with too much force. The slush of the tea going into our teacups seemed much too loud.

"Hermione?"

"Hmmm?"

"I do not compliment you to humiliate you. I mean every word."

All I could say to that was, "Oh," and stir my tea with renewed vigour.

We had another couple of minutes of this horrible awkward silence, when I said, "Malfoy?"

"Hmmm?"

"Look, I know that this is how you've operated probably all your life, but I can't stand these evasions. I mean, what do you have to lose by admitting that in a fit of chivalry—misguided, unfortunately—you hexed Carstairs? And before you trot out all your usual boilerplate about me being an insufferable Gryffindor, I see red when you evade and dance around the simplest questions. I can't"—dear god, I'm actually going to say this with a straight face—"trust you when you are constantly…" I let out a gigantic huff and banged my cup down on the saucer. "Are so political. With everything."

He cocked his head, his mouth pursed. I wasn't quite sure whether he was annoyed or amused.

"I am a politician, Hermione," he noted.

"Not with me. You don't need to be with me, damn it!"

He straightened up, and his hand went to his pocket to pull out a cigarette. I knew him well enough to know this was nothing more than a bid for time.

"Don't. Please." I reached across and stilled his hand.

It shocked me, how warm his hand was. I half expected it to be icy to the touch, a physical manifestation of his hard, ambitious heart.

War has a way of breaking or making people. Look at Neville. Malfoy wasn't any different. The war had stripped him of all that brattiness that had been his hallmark while at Hogwarts, replacing it with a sort of steel that was, frankly, enviable. Aside from his grief at his father's death, nothing rattled him; the early greying of his hair had contributed to that mystique.

I involuntarily closed my fingers around his and remembered that day in my office when we had traced Monet's brush strokes with our forefingers. Mesmerised, I watched as he lifted my hand up to his mouth and gave it a brief kiss before bringing both our hands to desk and then letting go.

I snatched my hand back and grabbed my empty tea cup.

"Sorry," we mumbled together. I stared at my hands.

There was another minute of extreme awkwardness before he coughed and then said, "I think I might have something for Jenkins."

That brought me up to face him again.

"Thank you."

"That was a direct hit regarding my father and me. And Pansy owns the Prophet. With her own money, in her own name, I might add. So I wasn't really lying."

I snorted at him. "Is that what this is about? Not really lying?"

He grinned at me, teeth and everything, and then said in his usual drawl, "Slytherin."

And then he sneezed.

To Be Continued
- 5
- 6
- 7
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The Politician\'s Wife